When my boys were little, pre video games, pre going to the park with friends, when it was just them and me and a lifetime of time, we used to play this little game my mother played with us when we were little.  I’d take my shirt off, lay on the floor, and have them write letters on my back with their fingers.  I’d try to guess the letters, and even when I knew I always guessed wrong because there is no greater feeling in the world than outsmarting your mom.

Not only did they learn to write the alphabet really fast, but I got a little baby massage out of the deal.  Win tothefucking win, yo.

When they started to bore with that game, we upped the ante.  I’d get down to my chonies, lay on the floor and give them ball point pens or sharpies.  They’d give me tattoos.  They’d usually start with my fish and “finish” them, and then they’d go out from there.  By the end, I had a full body tattoo, I’d blown at least an hour,  if not two, and my kids had sugarplum wishes and ice cream dreams of being tattoo artists when they grow up.  Because there is no greater feeling than having your kids understand that there’s something more to art than painting or sculpting, that it comes in all shapes and sizes and needle gauges.

And damn it, that shit felt awesome.  And it annoyed the holy fuck out of my husband.  Win tothemotherfucking win, yo.

Downside? Kind of hard to explain at work the next day.

So when I asked them last night to come mark and measure my back for my tattoo at BlogHer, I thought nothing at all of it.  Seems par for the course, right?  Funny how you forget that what seems like exactly just yesterday with your kids can actually be fairly close to a decade ago and they’ve got Pokemon cheat codes and Green Day lyrics and french grocery lists to store in their brains…they can’t be bothered to remember some totally endearing childhood moments or anything.  They about died when I told them what I needed them to do. I reminded them that they used to do this all the time with me and they both looked at me like I was an insane person.  

Like they’re the first or something. Pshaw.

So I bribed them.  They accepted my terms and I started to take my shirt off.  My 11 years old’s eyeballs turned and began to claw their way back into his skull.  My 9 year old lept, LEPT backwards.  I said look, dudes.  You see my in my chonies all the time and they said ohmygod ewwwww mom! and I said you know what?  It’s the exact same thing as a swimsuit exactly and the 11 year old said okay, I’ll keep telling myself that.

{Note for Future 1of3 and 2of3: The reason it is so frightening to see me in a swimsuit or my chonies is that YOU DID THIS TO ME.  I looked like a blond Megan Fox before I opted to give you life, and you made me gain 105 pounds and they you made me gain 80 pounds, and it was totally worth it, so shut up.  Momma loves you.}

Once the measuring tapes and the ink pens and the schematics came out, they were fine.  They got right down to business and did a fantastic job making and marking all the right measurements, and then I made them take pictures of said back to send to my designer. They have never been so happy in their whole lives, partly because they got to use the big, new camera and partly because there is no greater way to humiliate their mother than taking photographs of her almost totally naked.  Because you know she’s just going to plaster them all over the freaking internet.

Trying to lose some weight for summer, but don’t have the right motivation?  Have my boys come take pictures of you in all your saggy-backed glory under halogen track lights.  You’ll go throw up right that second and start the hardest diet and exercise routine of your life the next morning.  Or drown your sorrows in cheesecake.  Either way, win tothe win, yo.

PS: if you need a tattoo designer say, oh, for a tattoo you want to get at BlogHer, leave a comment and I’ll send you his email.  You wouldn’t believe how good he is.

PPS: If even one of you tells me I look hot, or you’d kill for a back like that, I will punch you square in the teeth.  I am 5’4″.  And I cropped the ass out.

PPPS: Grab the badge.  Just sayin’.